Deadbeat of the Wastes
by Krimson Kane
Summary: They call him Deadbeat. No one knows his past, but they remember his face. There isn't much to say about this stranger who showed up to Megaton. Is he a hero or simply an agent of death? Whatever the case, whispers around town agree that he's a bit of a dick.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

_**My**_ throat had nearly caved in by that point; I would have done just about anything for water. The bullet holes in my gut probably weren't doing me any favors either. At first, I thought I was hallucinating when I saw a town in the distance; heat does a hell of a job tricking you into seeing things that aren't there. Or worse: _not_ seeing what _is_ there. I tried to stay on my feet, struggling to hold my wounds as I shambled towards the scrap structure in the distance.

From above in a rusted lookout tower, a rifleman met my gaze, keeping his gun high enough to train on me if I looked like a threat. Considering how pathetic I must have appeared, the guard didn't take too much notice in me. Instead, the stranger on the lookout tower was more interested in the direction I had come from. I could see his mouth moving, muttering something to himself. Impossible to hear, even if I wasn't on the verge of blacking out from dehydration and blood loss.

There was another person. I guess "person" really isn't the right word for it. A robot, rather. It stood at the entrance of the massive structure, as still as a statue. As I approached, it finally moved, making me jolt backwards from the sudden surprise.

I fell on my side, coughing.

"You alright down there, pal?" I heard from above. I glanced up, straining to see the gunman above as the sun blinded me.

"Never better," I grunted, not bothering to dust myself off as I made it back on my feet.

"Merchant?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Are you a merchant?"

Did I _look_ like one? Hell, I really must have been losing my edge if he mistook me for a salesman. I shook my head, feeling muscles in my neck I didn't even know I had.

"As long as you're not planning on shooting up the place, head right inside," he called out. "Just keep your nose clean. I'd hate to waste bullets."

I didn't bother to respond, using what little energy I had left to pull myself toward the front gates. They opened for me, two men on the other side. Both were armed, of course. Nothing too surprising.

What _was_ surprising was that ridiculous hat one of them wore.

He started saying something, but I don't remember what it was.

"...look rough…." was all I caught from the stranger wearing the cowboy hat and trench coat.

I can't really be sure what happened after that. It was around that time my face met the dirt.

And after that?

Darkness.


	2. Chapter 1: Debts to Pay

_**Chapter One**_

_**Debts to Pay**_

_**Everything**_ hurt.

"Well, he's breathing, so that's good news."

"He's lucky."

Whoever was talking, they were doing so loud enough to make my ears pound. I wanted to tell them to be quiet and roll onto my side, but I couldn't. The best I could manage was opening my eyes, but it didn't do much for me. It was all a blur. My eyes adjusted after a while, met with the sight of a flickering gas lantern hanging over me, shedding what little light there was in the room.

A man with a shaved head and white beard moved into sight, his face hovering over mine.

"Look who decided to wake up."

Where the hell was I? I wanted to ask, but opening my mouth was painful. It hurt too much to even consider. Every bone in my body was screaming, but I tried to ignore it. Tried. Couldn't manage. Christ, everything hurt like hell.

Another face was soon hovering over me. And that _stupid_ hat.

"Well I'll be damned," the cowboy muttered. "You really aren't dead, are you?"

What a stupid question. I found myself getting angry, my body struggling to pull itself up.

"Whoa, take it easy there," the man with the white beard urged. "Are you _trying_ to hurt yourself?"

It wasn't like I had much of a choice but to lay back down. If I forced myself any more than I had, I probably would have blacked out again. My stomach growled. I raised my hand with the intent on getting their attention, but found I could only pull it so far. There was an IV sticking into my arm, nearly pulling it out when I moved.

"He's still kicking, alright," the cowboy chuckled. "You'd think after that many bullets in him he'd try to sleep it off."

Clearing my throat, I finally endured that pain required to open my mouth. Every word felt like a razor on the inside of my gums. My teeth were throbbing and my jaw felt as if it were about to fall off.

"Where am I?" I managed.

"Didn't you read the sign?" the man with the white beard asked, sounding somewhat annoyed. If I had the energy and willpower, I would have flipped him off. Or maybe flip him over a table. But I didn't, so I settled for a scowl. The cowboy rested a hand on the other stranger's shoulder, getting his attention.

"Go easy on him," he pleaded. "This man has been through enough for one day." The cowboy proceeded to look back down on me, offering a warm, honest smile. Something about him told me he meant it. But that didn't excuse the ridiculous getup he wore. "You're in Megaton, stranger. And you're lucky to be alive."

"Sure I am," I grunted, finally finding the will in me to sit up. The pain was almost too much to bare, but I ignored the agony.

"I'm Lucas Simms," the cowboy introduced. "And this is Doc Church. He did a mighty fine job of patching you up."

"Yeah," the man known as Doc Church scoffed. "And he only used up about a dozen stimpaks."

Again, I scowled at the doctor.

"You'll have to forgive me," I struggled to speak. "I forget the part where I _asked_ for your help."

At this, his dark face seemed to grow red with anger.

"Listen here, you-"

"That's enough, Church," Simms butted in. "He didn't mean anything by it."

"Oh, trust me, I did," I assured. The cowboy looked slightly defeated, but occupied himself by taking the doctor out of the room. I could hear cussing from the other side of the door. For the first time in what must have been weeks, I found myself smiling. I was already making friends the only way I knew how.

Let the record show, I would have said it again if I had the chance. I don't do well with stuffy attitudes, no matter the case.

It was a while before the man known as Lucas came back in the room, making sure to close the door behind him. The doctor was still swearing, and would more than likely have cursed my name if he knew it.

By then, I found the strength to move to the side of the bed, letting my bare feet touch the floor while accompanied by the feeling of an IV tugging against my arm. I scooted over closer to the stand to make sure I didn't accidentally rip it out of my arm. Whatever was in it was starting to become noticeable. The pain didn't hurt as bad as it did when I first woke up.

Lucas Simms grabbed a nearby chair, sitting it in front of me before taking a seat. He leaned on his elbows, getting close to my face. If that IV hadn't been in my arm, I might have had the reaction of swinging a fist into his nose. People who get too close are prone to get some broken bones.

"How are you feeling?" he asked me. I laughed, shaking my head.

"It feels like I've got a brahmin sitting on my chest and my head hurts like hell."

"If that's all, you're lucky," the cowboy told me. "I'm still amazed you managed to walk in through the front gate before killing over."

"What can I say?" I coughed. "I'm full of surprises."

"Sure, sure." Mr. Simms grew quiet for a while, looking over the scars on my chest. I'm not sure when they found the time to undress me, but I was down to practically nothing but a pair of underwear that had more holes in them than I did. As a matter of fact, I didn't have a _single_ bullet hole in me. Those stimpaks really did the trick. Maybe the doctor really _did_ use as many as he claimed.

"Looks like I'm in your debt," I sighed. I knew all too well how the wasteland operated. There was no charity in these parts, and I didn't have a single cap to my name. I glanced towards the door, wondering how quick I could run out if I had to. Could I even stand up?

"Don't worry about that right now," he said. "Try and get some rest, then we can talk about it."

I looked him dead in the eye, trying to find something—anything—that would give me an upper hand. People are easy to read if you know what you're looking for. I'm going to blame whatever was in that IV; I couldn't get a read on the guy. He was calm, collected, and genuinely seemed like he had my best interest in mind. Normally, I would have been glad, if I wasn't looking at a considerable amount of debt for all the medical supplies I must have soaked up while I was out. Which begged the question:

"How long have I been out for?" I asked.

"Three days," Lucas told me. "You slept like a rock."

"Probably the drugs," I told him.

"Probably." Again, he went silent for a considerable about of time, looking me over. "You mind giving me your name?"

I said nothing.

It's not exactly unheard of to ask a stranger for their name, but in the Capital Wasteland, it's a great way to get a bullet in the head—especially in my line of work. To be asked so bluntly for it was nearly startling. How this man had the gall to ask such an inappropriate question was beyond me. Instead of a name, I offered a shake of my head.

"You're safe here," he practically pleaded. "You can tell me."

"Call me whatever you want," I huffed. "'Deadbeat' might be fitting. I don't have a cap to my name. So good luck getting me to cough up anything to pay what I owe."

I expected him to pull a gun on me, but instead he laughed. A hearty, wholesome laugh that brought the tension down in the room.

"Alright, Deadbeat," he said. "I guess that's the best I can get out of you. No hard feelings. Get some rest, and when you're able, come see me. We'll figure out a way to work off your debt."

Without a word more, he pushed the chair back where he got it from, leaving the room while chuckling. I sat there for a while in the lantern light, not sure what to think. It wasn't like there was anything I could do in that situation, so I settled for lying back down.

I covered my face with an arm, trying to force myself to go back to sleep, but it never came. After sleeping for as long as I had, my body acted afraid to drift back into slumber. There's always a fear in the wasteland about never waking back up.

Afraid or not, I somehow managed to close my eyes, being taken away to a land of dreams.


	3. Chapter 2: Nonsense, Noodles, and-

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Nonsense, Noodles, and Negotiations**_

_**Doc**_ Church might not have liked it, but I was under the impression that he was obligated to see that I recovered. The doctor didn't bother to attempt small talk with me, running through his "tests" in total silence. I didn't bother to push him in fear he'd keep me longer. The snobbish bastard constantly looked on edge.

Two days after I had awoken, I was convinced I was ready to hit the wasteland again. My mind was constantly thinking of ways to dip out of town, but it's hard to make plans when you know nothing about where you are. All I had was the name of the place: Megaton. Whatever the hell that meant.

So the next morning, I prodded Doc Church for answers when he went through the arbitrary tests he was so keen on giving.

"Feel anything?" he asked, hitting my knee with a rubber hammer. I wondered if I could get away with kicking him in the face out of "reflex."

"Yeah. Feels like you're hitting my leg."

"I can hit it harder if you'd like," he offered, giving me a cold, close-hearted glare. "I like to make sure my patients leave being able to walk. Wouldn't it be terrible if you couldn't? Here let's test it."

I nearly screamed when he came down on my knee with that hammer thing. Some old world shit I knew nothing about; all I could tell was that it hurt like a bitch to get hit with one. And that old bastard was putting force behind his blows.

"Do that one more time and we're gonna have a serious problem," I warned

Church pretended to go deaf, scribbling something down on a clipboard. I tried looking at what it was, but the handwriting was impossible to read—even by wastelander standards. For all I knew, he could have been writing about how much of an asshole I was.

"You should be good to go," he said. "Enjoy your knew bill of health, and try not to get shot again. Having your face leave my office would be nothing less than a vacation."

"Screw you too, I guess." I stood up, barely catching the wad of clothes the good doctor tossed my way.

"You may want to put those on," Church told me, not bothering with eye contact. "Consider it a part of your debt to Megaton."

I bit my tongue. Oh, the temptation to grab him by the back of his hand and just _slam_ it into the wall was almost overwhelming. But I regained control. I wasn't about to ruin any chance of getting out of town.

Stripping naked, I tossed my underwear mere inches from his feet, putting the new pair on as Church huffed under his breath. He left, nearly slamming the door on his way out. The reaction he gave was worth a loud laugh, but I caught myself. I hadn't been the only one in the room.

On one of the other beds was a kid. He huddled himself into the corner of the bed closest to the wall, coddling a teddy bear for support. The little guy was trembling like a mouse in the presence of a yoa guai. His clothes were tattered and dirty; a common custom for many in the wastes.

Fully dressed in the brown trousers and sweat-stained white shirt I had been given, I laced my new boots. Thankful they mostly fit my foot. A little big, but not enough to notice. I had made by with worse, or sometimes entirely without. But in my line of work, running around the wastes without shoes is a wonderful way to lose a toe or have a foreign object lodged into your heel.

I checked the pockets for loose caps.

Nothing. Damn it.

"Don't hurt me…." I heard the kid suddenly murmur. "Don't…."

His voice trailed away into a stream of tears, soon weeping hysterically. It was loud enough to catch Doc Churches attention, soon hurrying into the room. From the look on his face, it was clear to see that he thought _I_ had something to do with it. I raised my hands in surrender, which seemed to be enough to make him believe me. Though I'm not sure if he was entirely convinced. He moved over to the crying boy, making sure to stab a dark look my direction before giving his full attention to the child.

"You're okay," Church whispered soothingly. "Everything is okay…."

"Where's mamma?…." he whimpered. "Where's Bradly?"

I saw the look on Church. A look everyone knows. He lost color in his face, petting the child's head. A pain presented itself behind the doctor's eyes, betraying the assuring voice he used on the kid.

"Everything is going to be alright," he told him. Church looked up to me. For once, he didn't to look so pissed off. If anything, the doctor looked hurt.

"You should speak to Lucas," Church told me, motioning his head at the curled up child, still sobbing into his teddy bear. "He'll be near the town entrance."

I faintly nodded, not sure I wanted to stay in that room any longer than I needed. Crying kids isn't something I hang around.

When I left, I closed the door lightly behind me, having to leave through yet another door just past the reception desk in order to head outside. The brightness of the afternoon sky nearly blinded me when I stepped out, having to shield my face with my hands. It took a while to adjust, but when they did, I wish they hadn't.

A bomb. A _fucking_ bomb, directly to my right. A man in rags stood beside it, damn near dry humping the thing as he threw his hands into the sky, crying out to whatever imaginary friend he had made. The worse part was that there were other assholes standing around it too, listening to what drivel he had to say. Across from this sat an outside bar, connecting to a building. A woman in a jumpsuit was staring at me.

"Praise be unto Atom!" the man in rags cried out to the cloudless sky. "For he is the giver of all; the division of flesh and soul!"

I made my way over to the open bar, taking a seat on a stool. A man sitting on the other end of the bar pulled his noodles a little closer to his chest, hunched over as he shoveled his lunch into his cheeks. I'm not even sure if he was chewing.

"You must be the new guy," the woman in the jumpsuit said. I was busy cracking my head around to watch the live performance being given in the center of town. I couldn't take my eyes off of the atomic bomb just _sitting _there. It felt like I was sitting on nails.

"_Praise be! Oh, praise be unto his glorious name!_" the preacher in rags hollered. I finally turned to the lady; her arms were crossed, but there was something about that smirk on her face. It was between the lines of amusement and shameless seduction.

"Uh, what?"

"You're the guy who fainted, right?"

"I didn't _faint_," I spat back, still halfway hearing the bullshit sermon going on behind me. "I was shot."

"Whatever, same thing—look, are you trying to buy something or are you just wasting space?"

I looked over my shoulder, finding just the man I was needing to see. He was walking down deeper into the crater that was Megaton, eyeing the crazy bastard pressing himself against the bomb. Lucas shook his head, finally turning to me. He gave me yet another one of his authentic smiles. Mr. Simms waved to the woman in the jumpsuit.

"Morin' Jenny," Lucas said, taking a seat between me and the noodle guy. He made himself comfortable before raising two fingers up. As if speaking their own language, the jumpsuit lady known as Jenny nodded wordlessly, reaching down behind the bar for a couple of short of glasses. She slid them in front of us, setting down a grime covered bottle of vodka. She did he best to clean around the neck of the bottle before opening it.

"Looks like I found you," I said to Lucas.

"Well, I figured it was a good idea to find you before you might have gotten lost."

There was something about the "getting lost" part that made me believe he wasn't an idiot. So much for the idea of skipping town. Jenny was making herself busy grabbing another bowl of noodles for her other patron. Lucas unscrewed the bottle and poured us each an inch in our respective glasses.

"You know what these are called?" Lucas asked me, raising his glass. He let the vodka swirl around it. I'm not sure if that was for show, or maybe his attempt at killing any germs lingering inside the glass. I took my own, staring at it.

"Uh…. Booze?" I questioned.

"I meant the glasses," he said. I looked at him funny, finally downing what was in my glass.

"Frankly I don't give a damn, sir." I set my glass down, only to have him fill it back up. I settled my tone after that. Any man offering free drinks is either trying to kill you or take you to bed. But Lucas had already insisted on me getting better, and I saw the way he kept looking at Jenny's hips to know better about the latter. What was his angle exactly? Whatever the case, I don't skip out on the opportunity for a drink. Especially a free one.

"Fair enough," he said, facing forward. He let his elbows rest on the counter, watching Jenny polish a glass. "Maybe one day you'll care enough to ask."

"I'm hoping I don't stick around long enough to," I admitted. Again, I downed the vodka. He offered another, but I put my hand up. If I kept it up at that rate, I was going to end up in the clinic again. I had forgotten the last time I'd drank booze. Every bottle I managed to come across in the wastes was either shattered of bone dry. I think it's safe to say my tolerance is absolute shit.

"It's your choice," Lucas said. "Hell, you could leave right now if you wanted to. But you're not gonna make it far without a gun."

I sat there, still struggling to read him. It was like he knew something I didn't realize. I've always been one to keep my cards close to my chest, but to Lucas, I felt transparent. He could see right through me, and he made it a point to let me know that he _could_.

"Suppose you're right," I said, putting it simply as that and that alone. I wasn't sure I liked the look he had on his face.

"No self respecting mercenary roams outside these walls without one. Funny how you got here with only your bare hands."

"That's what you think I am?" I chuckled.

"You could be a Raider too," he mentioned. "Maybe a slaver, or just someone trying to make it day to day. But my money is on mercenary. You've got that certain look about you. No manners either. And I don't think you're completely heartless, no matter how you treated Doc Church."

"Whatever you wanna call me, bud." I dismissed. As tempted as I was to grab the bottle and pour myself another shot, I fought the urge. It's a lot harder to run out of town when you're shit face. Knowing my luck, I would manage to escape only to stumble back inside a few hours later. But Lucas was right about one thing. I _didn't_ have a gun. The asshole who took it probably already sold it to some merchant on the road.

"I'll make a deal with you," Lucas told me over the sound of slurping noodles beside him. "I've got a gun that's collecting dust in my office. I'd be more than happy to give it to you. I'll even wipe away all your debt. But you need to do me a favor."

"Here comes the catch," I told him with scoff.

"No catch," he promised. "Just a job. Something I think you could handle. If you haven't noticed, this town isn't exactly armed to the teeth."

"I haven't had time to notice." I tried playing coy, but I already knew from the first look at town that it was filled with softies; nobody that could stare another man in the eye and pull a trigger. Just a bunch of sheep locked away in a pen.

"Well, the few gunman we have are limited," he told me. "All our manpower is focused on not letting anybody who wants to do us harm inside. Did you notice that kid in Doc's clinic?"

"Not particularity," I lied.

"His family was hit by a raider group. Stockholm said he spotted the boy running from the nearby town in tears. From what we gather, the rest of his family is either dead or held hostage. I know he mentioned a mother…."

We both exchanged grim looks. Yes, it was possible there _was_ a hostage, but they had no intent on giving her up. Nothing is beyond a Raider's moral compass.

"So what, you want me to do some rescue mission?"

"No," Simm's said, finally allowing himself to show even the slightest amount of anger. He looked me in the eye, showing the fire the burned behind them. "I want you to put an end to them. You do that, and you can consider yourself a free man. I'll even pay you. Hell, you could even move in if you wanted. But I _need_ those raiders dead. This isn't the first time we've had issues with them."

I thought silently to myself for a while, letting the question tumble around my mind a bit before asking them.

"How do you know you're dealing with the same group of raiders?" I asked.

I watched as the noddle guy beside Lucas waved for Jenny, who in return gave him yet another bowl of noodles. The man acted like he hadn't eaten in days. It made my stomach growl. The mush Doc Church provided looked nothing like those noodles.

"A hunch," Lucas said, but I wasn't buying it. There was information he was holding out on me, but I knew better than to try and drag it out of him. Did it even matter?

"And what's to say I don't skip out instead?" I asked him. "I could just take the gun you're offering and go on with my life."

Jenny was clearly ease dropping into our conversation, not bothering to hide her staring as she continued to clean glasses. Lucas sat in silence for a while, having yet another shot.

"500 caps," he told me. "Kill all of them and the payment is yours. If you find anyone still alive, I'll offer an extra hundred caps for every individual you manage to save. If there's anyone at all."

I nearly shit myself at that number. I'm not sure if I had ever seen that much money in my life.

"Did I mention I'll give you keys to that house up there?" he told me, pointing to the overhanging shack above us, near the edge of the metal walls.

I couldn't understand why so much payment was being offered, but I would have been an idiot to refuse. For better or worse, I was on the job. Nobody in their right mind would pass up that many caps, even for a bounty contract.

"If that's the case," I said. "Consider me hired. You tell me where they are, and I promise you won't ever seen them again. Now, about this gun you mentioned…."


	4. Chapter 3: Murder and Manipulation

_**Chapter 3**_

_**Murder and Manipulation **_

_**It**_ was far from perfect, but if it fired bullets, it would have to get the job done. When Lucas handed me an old, rusted rifle, I almost thought he was joking. But it became clear that it was far from a joke. Just a shitty second hand gun that hadn't seen action in years. Rust had eaten away the firearm. It made me wonder what it must have looked like in its prime. It must have been a beautiful gun. Now, it stood in the shadow of its former glory, held together with duct tape and positive thoughts.

Bullets jingled in my pocket as I adjusted, my belly laid flat over the dirty wasteland. The sun was starting to fall in the distance, a red glare rolling over the fields of a dying earth. Between the twilight, my eyes struggled to adjust, straining to see the not-so-distance homes in shambles. Springvale, Lucas had called it—not far from Megaton.

I must have waited for hours, but well rested and fed (Lucas had offered dinner, which I of course accepted), I was willing to lay there the entire night if need be. Stockholm reported that the raider group could be seen from time to time scavenging around the dead community of homes.

_They're__ probably shitfaced somewhere,_ I thought to myself. They hadn't popped up so far. My mind suddenly went to darker thoughts. If the mother really was still alive, they might have been inclined to spend the evening "entertaining" her. I shuttered, but reminded myself that there was nothing I could do about it. Yet.

Why didn't I just walk down there and start firing rounds into the air to draw them out? Well, I had already been shot the week before, and didn't have the inclination of doing it again. I play things slow and safe. Considering I'm telling this story, you can bet it's worked for me so far. So I waited. And waited and waited, and waited some more.

Just when I was about to lose hope, I saw them. A pair of strangers in straps and leather wandering down the main road of Springvale. From how close they were in proximity, I assumed they were speaking to one another, but I was so far away that it would have been impossible to pick up.

I kept low.

Laughter. They were laughing about something, and it had drifted my direction. A dead giveaway for a raider. They've never gone on file as quiet. Carefully, I racked a bullet into the chamber of the rifle, peering down the iron sights. Was it worth it to take a shot? Maybe. But there was no telling how soon more of them would show up, and I wasn't confident in killing both with such a small frame of time. No—one would more than likely have a chance to take cover behind a dilapidated old world home and start shouting for backup.

They walked out of sight, one of the homes blocking my view. Frustrated, I pulled away from the sights, cursing the gun in my hands.

"If this piece of shit doesn't fall apart, I'll eat my boots," I muttered under my breath.

I took a gamble, deciding to get closer to the town. Still staying low, I hurried down the hill I had been using as a perch, huddling behind a rotting wall. What was once a window made for an excellent hole to peek through, trying not to let my head stick out too much as I sneaked a look.

There were the raiders. Their voices were notable from that range, but still far from understandable. I lowered back down behind the wall, again looking at the gun. How in the hell was I supposed to take on raiders with such a shitty rifle? I would have been better off with a knife.

Which gave me an idea.

I glanced down to the ground, spotting a few emptied cans of baked beans. The labels were faded and peeling, one of the cans dented. Taking one more glance through the hole in the wall, making sure they wouldn't notice, I took the butt of the rifle and carefully pounded one of the cans. From time to time I would sneak looks. Sure enough, they just kept on walking, not even paying attention to the sound of a can being flattened.

Doing what I could to work with the tin, I folded pieces of it over itself by pressing the flattened can into the wall. It was a struggle, and I nearly sliced my hand open once or twice, but I managed to fold the flattened can just enough. Once bent in the position I wanted, I used the rifle butt to flatten the corners. I won't admit how long it too me, but I'm more than happy to brag about the end result.

It was far from fancy, but with a little grinding against a rock, I had made my very own knife out of a can. A great party trick, assuming that party involves breaking out of custody or cutting someone's throat while they're sleeping. I tucked the can knife into my belt, mindful of the direction of where the bladed end was sticking.

I let the rifle hang over my back by its sling, creeping my way through the dim of early night. Advancing from home to home, I did my best not to be seen as I kept the raiders in my sight. As I tailed after them, the two murderers of the wastes wandered into one of the few homes that weren't completely destroyed. They pounded on the door until it was opened, the door slamming shut behind them.

A two story home with only a few windows, one of which was on the lower level. I made damn sure that I moved _away_ from the window as I advanced to the house. The shards of missing glass made it all too easy to hear inside, nearly overwhelmed by all the noise I could make out.

A radio was playing. Voices fought against one another. Cursing and hacking. But no crying, nor any pleas for help. I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. Whatever the case, I was going to need to think of something. Those raiders were in for an unexpected eviction.

I pulled my can-knife from my belt, scratching it along the side of the window seal. And I waited. Nothing. So I did it again.

"The fuck was that?"

"Huh?"

"_Shhhh!_ There's something outside."

"You're fucking high."

"Yeah, but I _heard_ something!"

"Fucking lightweight."

"Would you be quiet?!"

Neither one of the voices were. I stayed put, stretching the fingers of my free hand, getting it ready. _Come on_, I thought. _You know you want to check it out_.

Footsteps drew closer to the window, overshadowing the sound of the distant music coming from the radio inside. Light that came from the window was blocked, a silhouette casting on the ground outside.

_Don't make me break glass_, I thought. _You'll fuck up everything if you make me do that_.

Luck was on my side that night. Sure enough, what was left of the window was lifted, a head popping out to take a look at the noise I was making. The eyes behind a rag mask looked _really_ surprised to see me standing there.

I grabbed the top of the raider's head, driving my makeshift knife into his throat. Pulling hard, his body went clean through the window. Desperately I pulled the struggling raider into my arms, my can-knife stabbing into their chest repeatedly until they stopped moving. It was a bold move that could have easily gotten me killed. Somebody _had _to have noticed their friend flying out the window.

"Griff?" I heard. "Where the fuck did you go?"

Was I brave enough to go for round two? Hell no. There was no point in pushing my luck, instead pulling the corpse of the raider with me as I moved away from the window, moving around the house and out of sight.

"You jump out the window?" the same voice called out. "If you're playing some kind of game, it isn't funny, dick."

The window slammed closed, with glass shattering.

"Dumbass….," the voice could be heard around the corner, but nothing more.

Letting out a relieved sigh, I quickly began to pat down the body of the raider. There wasn't a god damn thing I could have wanted. Some empty boxes of candy, a book of matches, and a _used_ condom stuffed in one of the pockets. I gagged, wiping my hand off over the body, only managing to get blood on me. It was better than what had been on it originally.

Of all the crap, I took the matches, leaving the body leaned up against the back of the house as I made my way back to the window.

The music was still playing, but a little louder now. Somebody had turned it up. Rolling the dice, I risked a peek inside, forcing myself not to jolt back down when I saw a raider sitting at a table. His head was lowered, using a can to smoke out of. Not wanting quick movement to catch his attention, sinking back down was the better option. Doesn't make you stand out as much, believe it or not.

I looked around, looking for anything remotely heavy. There was a hunk of metal that looked like the remnants of a car part. I held it in my hand, tossing it up and down to get a feel for the weight. Wasn't exactly perfect for my needs, but it would get the job done.

My hand moved up to the side of the window, struggling to slide it open. Most of the glass was missing by that point, but I wasn't going to risk any more noise than I needed. Saying a silent prayer to a god I didn't even believe it, I managed to get the window back open without anyone taking notice. There was the sound of a lighter flicking, and cursing.

"Work, you piece of shit…." the raider inside grumbled.

I moved under the window, getting on the other side so my right arm was nearest to it. Closing my eyes, I tried to re-piece what I had seen in my mind, getting a layout for the room the raider was in, and where exactly he was sitting. And where his head was.

I popped up, arm pulled back.

"What the fu-" was as much as the raider could say before having their face mashed in by metal that came flying through the window. It clanked on the ground as I lowered back down. Waiting for the worst possible outcome, I waited, clutching my can-knife in hand.

Only the radio playing.

_Nice_.

I slid in through the window, keeping low as I moved over to the dead raider slumped back in his chair. Blood caked the wall to his side, where the blood and other bodily juices sprayed from impact. He might not have had anything useful on him, but the revolver resting on the table beside him caught my eye. Nothing much—a puny .22 revolver, with only three rounds in the cylinder. But I'd be damned before leaving something like that behind. I stuffed it into the back of my belt before tip-toeing towards the door leading out of the kitchen.

It was wide open, and I could hear more voices from whatever room I was next to.

"….so nothing like _that_ ever happened again."

"I still say it's bullshit. Nobody can take down a deathclaw with their bare hands."

"It wasn't just his hands. He had a stick."

"What? Was he using it to play fetch?"

"You think you're funny, but you're not."

"Fuck you."

"And fuck you too, bitch."

I had caught the tail end of a lovely conversation, with the radio noise coming directly from the room. The song that was playing dimmed down into silence, followed by a pause.

"_I hope you kiddos are enjoying the tunes,_" a warm voice said. "_Because I've got news. Yep, you guessed it. _Bad _news, folks._

_ "How many of you have seen the inside of a vault? Well __I'm guessing__ it ain't all that grand, from the reports I've been getting. The tight-lidded hole in the ground known as vault 101 recently popped open, just for __a body to litter the doormat__. A band of merchants have reported seeing a lone body outside, still in __fresh__ vault suit. Not so fresh now, with the brains all over it. Reports suggest that the curious resident of 101 took a gander outside to see what the fuss was all about. From the size of the hole in their head, I don't think the stranger was welcome__d__ to our slice of paradise. So lets raise a glass of nuka to the stranger of 101. Sorry your story had to end so soon, kid. Whoever you were. Now let's get back to the music before we die of depression."_

More music started playing, with the voices still talking over the radio chatter.

Glancing back to the kitchen table, I noted the torn table cloth that had been strung over it. More accurately, the flag that had been _used_ as a table cloth. It was so tattered and dirty there was no telling what it stood for, but it draped over long enough to touch the blackened tiles of the kitchen.

Carefully heaving the dead raider up out of his chair, I moved his body underneath the table, trying to make room for the both of us. The two raiders in the other room kept talking—whatever it was about was starting to get heated. I cleared my voice, trying to get into character.

I meowed to the best of my ability, trying to make a convincing cat. The two raiders shut up immediately.

"No way…."

I meowed again, this time a little more pathetic, trying to sound hurt. I've never been a good actor, but it did the job well enough.

"Sounds like dinner!" One of the raiders hollered, storming into the kitchen. His feet thudded next to me as I curled the can knife around my palm. "Where are ya, you little-"

He lifted the tablecloth, only to find the end of a sharp can between throat. I witnessed his jaw moving, trying to scream for help as I pulled him underneath the table, the two of us struggling as I wrapped my arms and legs around him. The bastard put up quiet the fight, racking my head into the wall a few times and nearly shoving the other dead body out from underneath the table in the middle of our scuffle. With my knife being driven into his throat a few more times, I could hear his buddy coming into the kitchen.

"You get it?" I heard the voice say. Then silence. By that point, it was getting considerably cramped underneath the table. I still had the freshly dead raider in my arms. "Rye? Where the fuck did you go?"

_Please, don't grow a brain and check under the table, whatever you do, don't fucking look down here. It's full occupancy._

He didn't. Instead, I heard his voice trailing over to the open window.

"You get it?" his voice called outside, assuming his friend had jumped through to chase after a cat that wasn't even there. I snaked out from underneath the table, seeing the raider leaning out the window, his hands supported by the window seal.

I slammed the window down onto his head, stunning him long enough to slam it a few more times for good measure. His body fell to the floor, legs violently kicking a blood ran from his forehead. I did him a favor and slit his throat, followed by a stomp on the head to take him out of his miserable existence. I'll never get used to that crushing sound a skull makes when its caving in.

Too shaky to even consider checking the new bodies, I somehow managed to fit all three under the table without a single limb spilling out. I half expected someone to come running in to find out what all the noise had been about. But no one did.

I moved into the new room—the living room, I should add. Bottles and needles lined the molding carpet, a few cigarette burns here and there. Shaken or not, it didn't stop me from grabbing the half empty pack of cigarettes resting on top of the radio, stuffing them into my back pocket as I made for the stairs. I reached for the revolver I'd taken earlier. Gun in one hand, the makeshift knife in the other, I carefully made my way to the second floor, peering around the corner. A hallway with three doors. One on the right, one on the left, and one all the way down the hall.

Stepping lightly forward, I pressed my ear against the door on the left. Nothing. Raising my revolver, I turned the knob gingerly, pushing open the door. A few candles lit the inside of a vacant bathroom, the smell of shit so strong it burned my noise hair. I caught a glimpse of the massive pile of shit in the toilet, practically overflowing by that point.

"_Oh, fuck me harder daddy!_" a female voice from the door the right demanded.

"_I told you to stop calling me that, you dumb slut."_  
"_Fuck you, daddy! Let me live my kinks or you're not getting this ass._"

A loud slapping noise could be heard as I neared the door to the right. There was no possible way that female voice with the incest kink was a survivor. Or at least, I hoped not.

I glanced to the door at the end of the hallway, then back to the door I was facing—the one with people fucking on the other side of it. I sighed. I'd been a ghost so far, but I didn't see how I was going to continue at that rate. Fast and loud would have to do the trick.

I kicked open the door.

A raider hunched over another raider, both surprised beyond belief to find a gun pointed at them.

The female raider on her hands and knees let out an ear curdling scream when I put a bullet in "daddy's" head. Out of instinct, I didn't pull the trigger on her, keeping my gun trained on her instead. She was scrambling for a weapon—anything to defend herself with as she shuffled through the bedroom, but stopped when she turned around to face me again, mere inches away from the barrel of the revolver. She dropped the metal bar in her hand, letting it bounce on the floor, hands raised.

Someone came running down the hall, but I never got the chance to properly introduce myself. The raider who heard the scream took two bullets to the heart before grabbing their wounds and collapsing onto the bedroom floor. My gun was right back on the female raider before she had time to bend down and take the metal bar back. She tried, I'll give her that much, but it didn't last long before she gave up, hands raised in the air again. She scowled. For someone completely naked, she certainly acted high and mighty.

"You gonna shoot me, ya puke?" she hissed.

"Nah," I responded.

The side of the revolver smacked against the side of her head, dropping her to the floor.

Once I was convinced she wasn't going to be getting up any time soon, I made my way out of the room, wandering down the hall. The last room unchecked was now open. No doubt that's where the last raider had come from. I made it to the doorway before regretting my choice of going in there.

I'm not one for censorship, but I'm going to have to make an exception here. I found the mother, along with the other child. What was left of them, anyhow. It would have been easier to explain if they were simply dead, but what had been done to them, whether if they were still alive or not, is something I'll take to my grave. It froze me in place. I witnessed the scene, feeling disgust for the first time in a long time. I didn't bother looking through the room. I wanted nothing to do with it.

I closed the door, letting out a sickened cough. It took me a while to recover. On my way back to the other bedroom, I made sure to stomp on the dead raider's skull—the one who had come from that direction. The sick motherfucker died too well for what he deserved. If I had caught him in the act, I would have cut him apart, piece by piece, and left him alive long enough for the wasteland to swallow him up.

"I almost feel sorry for you," I told the unconscious female raider. I scooped her up in my arms, throwing her onto the bed. I let my mind work as I reached for the cigarettes in my back pocket, striking a match and lighting up. I gave it a few minutes before the raider would come too. Just long enough to think of something fitting for what she had been an accomplice too.

_**My**_ cigarette was burning down to the filter by the time she started stirring again. I raised the empty revolver towards her, making sure she remembered who was in charge of the situation. I hoped she wasn't bright enough to know that it wasn't loaded. From the look of frustration on her face, I knew she bought it.

The raider held the bruise on her forehead, rubbing her face with a nasty look. She showed me her yellowed teeth as she spat again. This time, she managed to hit my boot. I fought the urge to strike her across the face for a second time. Restraint was key in that situation.

"You gonna do something or not?" she growled.

"Not sure yet," I confessed. "That all depends on how well you behave. I could make it easy on myself and put a hole in your head right now. Probably the smart thing to do. But you and I both now how much you're probably worth on the market." I looked her body over, shamelessly staring at her features. It only made her angry—there wasn't a self conscious bone in her body. From what I saw, she had no reason to be anyway. "I think I could get a _lot_ for you. You're obviously equipped with enough to sell for a hell of a lot more than the run of the mill slave. Some old coot would have a heart attack seeing those things shoved in his face."

"_Fuck _you."

"Only if I say so," I smiled. "Please, cut the tough act. You're not fooling me. Do you have any idea who I am?"

"A bitch who's about to get their throat ripped out with my teeth," she snapped, balling her hands into firsts as she sat on the bed. She kept eye contact, desperately striving to spark some sort of fear into her.

But her disposition wouldn't last long.

People are predicable. Everyone has a phrase—keywords—that will make them break. Words that can lift spirits, or destroy all hope. The wasteland could learn a thing or two if any member of this hell on earth bothered to pick up a book. Or bothered to learn how to read, for that matter. If only the remnants of this broken shell of a planet realized just how powerful words can be.

"I'm surprised you don't remember me," I told her, my mind slipping into character. She suddenly looked confused.

"Am I supposed to?" She spat. I frowned, shaking my head slowly.

"Oh, honey…." I sighed. "You really don't, do you? Come on, _think_ about it. I don't remind you of anyone? You were young, if I remember right, but you weren't _that_ young."

The confusion on her face grew, curling her lips and furrowing her brow.

"The fuck are you going on about?" she snarled.

And now, for the leap of faith. A coin flip of sorts I wasn't sure would work. But I didn't have much to go on. I won't admit to being versed in psychology, but I know enough to make it work in my favor. If all else failed, I figured another blow to the head wouldn't kill her.

Here went nothing.

"I don't take pride in killing your father," I told her softly. "But I had a job to do, and I intended on finishing it. You don't even realize how long I've looked for you."

There was a heavy thickness of tension in the room. We locked eyes; she kept looking back and forth between mine, trying to understand what on earth I was talking about. Had it worked?

The tears told me it had.

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about!" she yelled. "Answer me! Answer me right now, god damn it, or-"

"Or what?" I asked. "You'll make me shoot you, after I spent _years_ trying to find you and fix what I did?"

What was I talking about, you ask? Hell if I know. Just enough vague statements to offer for the raider to piece together whatever story she might have believed I was trying to tell her. And it worked like a charm, even if she wasn't willing to admit it. I could see the horror and pain behind her watering eyes. Luck really was on my side that night.

"It _is_ you…." she uttered in a guttural voice. "You son of a bitch, you killed him…. You killed him in cold blood!"

You'd be surprised how horrible the mind is about keeping the facts straight. The brain rarely admits when it forgets details, big or small. So, it fills in the details with what it _believes_ is right. False memories of things that sound right, but usually aren't. From what I was witnessing, I had suddenly become the man who killed this woman's father. How and when it happened, I didn't know. But I wasn't about to say anything to foil my bullshit story. When in doubt, be vague about things. Let other people assume the rest while you smile and nod.

"If I could go back and change what I did, I would," I told her, frowning again. "But that doesn't excuse this life you've chosen. I spent all this time looking for you, to try to make things right. And look at you. A common raider letting any man shove his dick in you. I probably should just sell you to the slavers and wash my hands of this."

"You're a murderer!" she shrilled, suddenly breaking into tears. The woman looked about twenty, but she sobbed like a baby. She stomped her feet on the floor as she shook her fists, acting childish, even for a grieving daughter. "You killed my father! You bastard! I'll kill you! _I'll fucking kill you!_"

Despite her threats, she didn't do anything to prove that she would. She just cried a lot and stomped her feet some more. At one point, she was so distressed she started hitting herself in the face, screaming in rage.

"Enough!" I yelled in a demanding tone. She didn't listen. I stormed over to her, grabbing her by the neck while shoving her down onto the bed. Nearly choking her got the picture across that I was in charge. She clawed into my forearm as I held her down onto the bed, towering over her. She finally stopped when I pushed a little harder. When she began to behave and lowered her arms, I loosened the grip, but kept the barrel of my new gun close to her temple.

"Listen, and listen close," I told her. "I'm going to put this gun away, and we're going to have a little chat. If I do, are you going to cooperate and be civilized?"

Tears streamed down her face. She finally nodded ever so slightly.

"Good. You're going to listen to me now," I continued. "I didn't waste all this time looking for you just to put you in the ground. You and I are going to have a long talk. You're going to tell me everything you remember, and then we'll go from there. Alright?"

She was completely in tears. The raider was entirely broken.

I can hear you asking: why the lies? Why bother going through all the trouble instead of just killing her and finishing the job? Two reasons.

One: it's a lot easier to take a person with you on their own free will rather than with their hands bound behind their back.

Two: I was going to need all the caps I could get.

Because I was getting paid to bring back captives. Not raiders.


	5. Chapter 4: Welcome Home

_**Chapter 4**_

_**Welcome Home**_

_** Her**_ and I talked for hours, yet I never got her name that I pretended to know. I settled for just calling her honey. I was old enough that she could have been my daughter, and it seemed to pacify her. She was a woman who had lost her father at a young age, having lost him when she was only ten, from what she had told me. Something about raiders hitting their family caravan. The irony that she herself became the very thing that killed her family wasn't all that uncommon. Raiders are born from other raiders, if the wasteland has taught me anything.

As we walked our way back to Megaton, she was an entirely different person. No more rough, tough killer. No, she was a lost child who had lost her father, still crying as she held onto my arm. Her clothes smelled something foul as she pulled close to me, but I pretended not to notice. As we made our way to Megaton, I spotted the watchman from before. Stockholm, I think Lucas called him. He looked surprised to see that I had come back with someone.

"Do you remember what we talked about?" I whispered to her.

"Yeah…." she sniffled.

"Repeat it back to me," I said. "Let's make sure we're on the same page."

"I was a captive," she murmured beneath her blubbering. "You saved me. And I'm not supposed to say anything more because I'm in shock…."

That part would be the most believable; she hadn't stopped crying even when the sun began to come up. With a cigarette dangling between my lips, we walked to the front gates, with Lucas and the other gate guard from before opening them.

Lucas tried to talk to me right then and there, desperate for answers, but I assured him that we needed to speak in private. Naturally, he invited me to his home, where the three of us sat around his kitchen table as I told a whole pack of lies.

"She's still too shocked to say anything else," I lied to Lucas, who was eating up my bullshit as fast as I could spew hit. His good nature worked against him, not even bothering to question my story. I think he was about to cry a couple of times, occasionally looking to the stairs to find his son ease dropping on our private conversion. Before being invited to his house, I didn't even know he _had_ a son. I think if anything it made my lies even more believable. Any parent hearing the story I told would be heartbroken to think about it from their point of view; if _their _kid had lost _them_ in some tragic way.

Some of what I told was truth—mostly about her story from when she lost her family when she was just a child. And it sold the act. All good lies require some truth mixed in for them to become believable.

"Well…." Lucas struggled. "It won't be easy telling that kid about the death of his mother and brother…. But I'm glad some good came out of it all. And that those raiders are dead." He scooted closer to the table, leaning forward towards the "captive" I had saved. "You're going to be alright. You're safe from those raiders. I'm Lucas Simms, and I'm hear to protect you. And so is Deadbeat."

My alias made the raider woman look to me, confused. It took her a moment to realize that was_ me_. I was Deadbeat. She didn't seem to puzzled by the strange name, going back to staring at the table.

"Do you have a name?" Lucas asked her. She said nothing, sniffling. Lucas proceeded to look at me, as if I knew it. I, in fact, hadn't the slightest clue, but I wasn't about to admit that to either one of them. Instead, I played my hand the best I could, resting a hand on on the former raiders back, rubbing it lightly. It was enough to get her attention.

"It's okay, honey," I told her. "You can tell him your name."

"Beebe…." she mumbled.

Lucas managed to smile again, but it was pained.

"You're in good hands, Beebe. If you're needing a place to stay-"

"You offered me a house, right?" I cut in. Lucas looked at me, momentarily confused. "I was planning on letting her stay with me. I don't think she'll listen to anybody else."

What can I say? I'm a manipulative son of a bitch when I need to be.

"That's probably best," Lucas Simms said. "She seems to trust you."

_She's a broken woman with daddy issues,_ I thought, managing to catch my reflection in the glass of nuka cola poured out for me. The wrinkles on my face were starting to stand out more than they used to. _No shit she trusts me_.

We kept the visit short—as short as I could keep it. Lucas Simms gave me the keys to my new place, repeating that if I needed anything, just ask. I kindly had to remind him about the extra hundred caps he offered on top of payment for any rescued captives, which he apologized for forgetting. I hadn't gone through that much trouble to miss out on caps.

His directions to my new home weren't all that difficult. It was only a hop and skip away from his place, just across from his, cutting into the "road" that lead into the center of town. Beebe said next to nothing on our way there, with a few of Megaton's settlers giving the two of us curious looks. I ignored them; I could give less of a fuck about what those shit-kickers think.

I unlocked the door to my place and-

"Allow me to introduce myself, I'm-"

I've never swung a rifle into my hands so fast in my entire life. I'm pleased to report that the rifle _did_ work. Thinking back on it, I wish it hadn't.


	6. Chapter 5: Settling In

_**Chapter 5**_

_**Settling In**_

_**My**_ new place was better than I could have anticipated. A little vacant of furniture and dusty as hell, but it was mine to do with as I saw fit.

It's a two story place with a decent amount of space. Two rooms, a working generator to keep a refrigerator running, along with a standing fan that did its best to keep the heat down. Sadly, there isn't any plumbing in the place. If I need to take a shit, I'm forced to walk to the other end of town while pinching my cheeks, praying that last nights Salisbury steak doesn't stain my pants.

One of the rooms came with a desk and filing cabinet, along with a typewriter. No paper, though. The ribbons on the thing were practically worthless too. It was an over glorified paperweight at that point. There was also a bed that felt like a cloud. It's a dirty mess, but heaven compared to sleeping on the floor.

Did I mention I have a robot? Well, I have a robot. Unfortunately, our first encounter resulted in putting a bullet in him. Say what you will about Robco. They certainly make a sturdy robot. All of his functions seemed to work fine despite the bullet hole, his circular body defying gravity as he floated around the house, doing what little cleaning he felt inclined doing. I blame the bullet that must have messed with his circuitry, but I swear he makes snide comments when he believes I'm out of earshot.

He insists on being called Wadsworth. A stupid name I've tried to break him from. With his body, he looks more like a metal octopus. So, naturally, I call him Mr. Octopus; Mr. O for short. It took a few days before he "remembered" what his new name was, making damn well sure to mutter how much he hated it when he thought I wasn't listening. From time to time, he'll make the mistake of calling himself by his former name. I make sure to remind him that he's wrong. Unfortunately, robots aren't as easy to manipulate as humans are.

As for Beebe, she made herself right at home. The first week or so she didn't say much. She mostly putted around the house, staring at walls. I admit there wasn't much to do around the place at first, so I had to force myself to spend my hard earned caps on home renovations. Thankfully, Megaton gets plenty of foot traffic, which includes traveling merchants.

I managed to fast-talk one of them out of a radio I convinced him of being faulty. How he didn't realize I messed with the knobs when he wasn't looking was beyond me. I also managed to get my hands on a few books I was willing to spend caps on without question. A home without books isn't a home at all. A managed to gain a decent collection for the provided shelves of my place, managing to mostly fill them. The merchant selling them couldn't understand why I wanted his entire stock for the price I offered. If he only knew how much some people would have paid for those copies. Most of which were paperbacks I had never heard of, but there were a few gems in the mix.

It wasn't until the second week after settling into my new home that I got around to fixing that typewriter. I had asked Lucas about who could fix it, and he pointed me into two different directions. One being a woman who owned a local store, and the other was a maintenance man who kept the water treatment plant in town running. Smelling a better deal, I went to the latter. Besides, from some of the rumors I heard about the owner of the local store, I saw it in my best interest to stay the hell away from the place for as long as I could. Mostly because of the prices I heard the settlers of Megaton quoting. Too high for my blood.

Naturally, I worked out a sweet deal with the man known as Walter; he didn't even charge me to fix the typewriter. All he asked was for a little help around town. A few leaks had sprung in the pipes that he couldn't be bothered with. They weren't too difficult to patch up. I've dealt with worse.

Things were going pretty well for me, but after about a month, most of the caps I had earned dwindled away. I kept the refrigerator stocked, bought a few novelties from the merchants visiting town, and even spent some money to fix that rifle Lucas gave me. By the time I was done with it, you would have never known that most of its life was spent rusting on a shelf.

The filing cabinet in my room became the home of multiple boxes of bullets for my rifle and revolver, which I had also done some work on. Mostly making sure it stayed clean and reliable. Beebe would often watch me work on my guns as I sat at my desk while she sat on the bed. As I worked with the guns, she would always ask what I was doing. After a month of living together, she was almost an entirely different person. It was to the point where if I even _tried_ to admit that she used to be a raider, nobody would have believed me. I blame her issues for that, and her strange affection towards me.

With one bed, I know you're probably wondering how the sleeping arrangements worked.

The spare room was turned into Beebe's room. I even bought her a sleeping cot that had cost way too damn much, but I wasn't alright with the idea of her sleeping on a hard, metal floor. But it was pretty pointless considering she would often sneak into my room in the middle of the next and cuddle up next to me. Most mornings I would wake up with her ass "accidentally" pushing into me. She had melted like butter in my hands.

She was too clingy for my tastes, and more times than not I would ignore her advances.

But there were some nights I didn't feel like using my hand to get off. I pretended those nights never happened.

Using a vulnerable woman half my age for sex is a horrible thing. It's a good thing that I've never pretended to be a good person. Despite that fact, my public persona varied. I'd gotten used to the nightlife of the city, typically having a drink down at the Brass Lantern, often getting looks. I was "that guy who saved that one girl" or as "that asshole who doesn't tip." A few other comments have been made about me, but I didn't take mental note. Again, I can't be bothered to give a shit about what Megaton thinks of me.

One night, having decided I didn't have the money to go out and drink, I had a beer at my desk, using some new paper I got for practically a steal. I made myself familiar with the clunky typewriter as I wrote out personal files; notes to help me keep track of minor details I might forget. Such as information on Megaton, Beebe and my robotic butler, and even a file on my arsenal, no matter how small it might have been.

I was three beers deep when I realized just how little caps I had left. 87. How in the _hell_ had I managed to waste so much money in only a month? I leaned back, cracking yet another beer against my desk to pop it open.

_88_ _caps_, I amended.

If I was going to keep living the way I was, money was going to have to start rolling in. I was in the middle of the brooding process when Beebe interrupted me. I turned my head as she knocked on the open door to my room, wearing nothing but one of my shirts I had bought weeks ago. It had become hers by that point. Sauntering over to me, she threw her arms around my neck, trying to get all lovey dovey. I pushed her away.

"Leave me alone, whore. I'm working."

"But _daddy…._"

"And _stop_ calling me that," I cringed. "If you ever want to get laid again, you better knock that shit right off, or you're gonna have to shove something else in your hole."

"Fine…." she pouted, acting childish as she climbed onto my lap. Her chest pushed into my face. At least she had _some_ redeeming qualities about her. "I'm really _lonely…_. Can you help me?"

My face smothered in her breasts she was so keen on shoving into me, I said two words that got her to get off me. Again, she pouted, lying on my bed to turn her back to me. I rolled my eyes, going about my business.

"Dumb whore," I said underneath my breath. She huffed in response.

"You won't even tell me you name," she complained, back still facing me. Part of her ass was hanging out from her shirt; correction: _my_ shirt that she _stole_ from me.

"I already did," I reminded her.

"Deadbeat _isn't_ your name."

"As far as you or anyone else is concerned, it is."

She grew silent, making sure to huff loud enough so I could hear. If anything it made me want to slap her, and _not_ where she enjoyed getting slapped.

"If you don't tell me your name, I'll have to give you one," she warned. "And you're not going to like it."

"Like what?" I mocked. "Dirty Old Bastard?"

"I could keep calling you Da-"

"Say that word one more time and I'll throw you down the fucking stairs," I warned. She shut up.

"You're no fun," she huffed.

I pounded down my beer before slamming it on the desk.

"This is what I get for turning a raider into a personal whore," I grunted. At this, she turned around, looking hurt.

"I mean…. Yeah, I'm a whore, but I'm _your_ whore…." She tried to smile seductively, wiggling her hips. I shook my head, beginning to regret not picking up more beer.

"And nothing more," I reminded her. "You're a dumb cunt who's under my thumb and is so mentally damaged that you think I actually like you."

Again, she frowned.

"You don't mean that," she told me. "You say that, but I know it's a lie. I know you better than you think."

"Right," I laughed. Oh, how little she really knew. I stood up from my desk a few minutes later, after I had finished the last of the reports I felt necessary to write. It was clear that I needed money, and I was going to have to head out into the wastes to get it. "Listen, Beebe, I'm going out of town tomorrow. When I'm gone, I expect you to finish that book I told you to read."

I heard her huff again.

"Reading is stupid…." she complained.

"Reading is a skill that will put you further ahead in life than most of the idiots in this shithole of a town. Read, or I'll smash a bottle over your fucking head—do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir…."

"Good. And make sure you eat while I'm gone tomorrow, or I'll smash two bottles over your head."

"Yes, sir…."

"And one more thing, if you-"

My words were cut off by the sound of her snoring. I turned my head, seeing that she had passed out in my bed, mouth open as she began sawing logs. Typical.

Whenever she wanted out of her required reading I forced her to do, she'd fall asleep. When I gave her an errand to run in town, she fell asleep. Whenever I gave her a stern talking to—you guessed it—she fell asleep.

Annoyed, I picked her up, carrying her into her room. She slept like the dead, not stirring even in the slightest when I tucked her into her sleeping cot. I made sure the blankets tucked her in, because I refused to deal with her if she caught a cold. Standing in the entrance of her room and watching her sleep, I wondered when I'd come to my senses and just sell her already. I knew slavers would give me a good price for a piece of ass like that.

I just hadn't gotten around to it yet, I told myself, walking back over to her, picking up her teddy bear off the floor. A grown ass woman who slept with a teddy bear. Ridiculous. I made sure to tuck Mr. Wigglesworth, said stuffed animal, between her arms. Turning off the lantern in her room, I gently closed the door, going back to my office.

Or at least, I tried, before Mr. O got in the way.

"Will you be needing anything else for tonight before I enter sleep-mode, sir?" he asked me, his tone suggesting he could care less.

"No, nothing else," I told him. "But make sure to check up on Beebe every couple of hours."

"As per usual, sir?"

"Yeah, as usual."

He _finally_ got out of my way, floating down the stairs while calling me an asshole under his breath.

I smoked a few cigarettes before going to bed, but not before personally going into Beebe's room to make sure she was still breathing. How was I supposed to make any money selling a dead woman? Seeing that she was fine, I went back to my room, turning off my lantern as I went to bed. I pulled my wool blanket over me, almost asleep before feeling someone enter my bed.

I was too tired to kick Beebe out of it, forced to cuddle with her.

It could have been worse, I guess.


End file.
